


Amid Our Stars

by IdrisSmith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Aghast, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 21:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5263439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdrisSmith/pseuds/IdrisSmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty returned with a vengeance. His promise from long ago was to be kept. He will burn the heart out of Sherlock, ripping away the most important person in his heart. He will have his last laugh, and he will break and defeat the God.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Regret

**Author's Note:**

> Major character death - read at your own risk. Unless you crave pain...

“’It’s not your fault, Sherlock,’ those were her last words, did you know?” The man before him stood smugly, as if he had won a war – he might have as well had because he succeeded in taking the most important thing from the taller man before him.

 

Sherlock clenched his teeth, trying to remain as stoic as he could manage, not letting emotion getting the best of him. His fingers were balled into a fist and at the back of his mind, he was contemplating of punching the man before him until he bleed. But, there was a voice too, in the midst of the coldness of his distant mind, the voice was warm.

 

 _‘Don’t, don’t give him the satisfaction,’_ It was her voice; she sounded like her, so very like her. How could she not? He had catalogued her every word, every smile, every move and every changes the moment he met her, whether he realized it or not, whether he wanted it or not.

 

“She trusted you, to the very end, interesting,” the man continued, pacing with precise steps, “and foolish too, if I may add,” he added, sneering.

 

Sherlock held back, resisting the urge to end the man with his own hands. His baser instinct screamed for that satisfaction. He wanted to make the man bleed and suffer just as he had suffered. Still...

 

 _‘No, don’t, don’t do it,’_ he kept hearing her. She was still keeping him in line. She always was, from the moment he met her. He’d like to think he did it himself, but no. She was the reason he was who he was – even before John. She had always had faith in him; she had always believed he was good, even when he was not.

 

He never believed he was good. Everything in his life was in search for the next high or the thrill of the chase. He never meant to do any good or be good; those are just the consequences of his actions in pursuit of a temporary high.

 

“I missed it then, I should have seen how important she was to you,” the man went on, flapping his arms about, making himself look far more important than he was, if anyone had met the man as he was, they would never thought of Sherlock as a drama queen. “That’s why I had to come back; I had to finish what I started,” he said, lips curling into a wickedly satisfied smile.

 

Sherlock flinched, betraying his composure for the first time. He should have been more careful, he should have protected her, he should have insisted on an extensive security detail for her when he couldn’t, even if he had to fight her for it. Should, he should have had done many things. Yet, he didn’t. He failed her and when she needed him the most, he was not there for her. She gave him everything and gained nothing from her affection for him.

 

Mycroft’s advised to him from a moment long gone echoed in his mine, though it didn’t sound as sinister as he remembered it. Instead, it was mournful, _‘caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.’_

 

“Who knew, Miss Molly Hooper had Sherlock Holmes’ cold heart all along,” the man said, his wicked smile grew into the kind that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame. His glee was at the expense of Sherlock’s misery and it was very clear he was enjoying every bit of it. Sherlock’s agony was the food to his soul.

 

“Don’t say her name,” Sherlock spat. He should really have remained calm, but, he couldn’t – not anymore. The monster before him was muttering her name as if it was nothing. No evil could ever be allowed to utter her name, not hers, she was too pure, too beautiful. She was – was. She became a past tense in his life, a memory he desperately wanted to cling onto.

 

The man titled his head akin to a confused child as he enjoyed how Sherlock was turning into shambles right before his eyes. He had to resort to desperate measures to find Sherlock’s heart and destroy her; it was all worth it as he saw how broken Sherlock looked even when he tried to hide it. If only he had more time – this they both knew. They knew he would have done far worse.

 

“You don’t have the right to say her name, Moriarty,” Sherlock added harshly, his fingers were tightening even more; threatening to break every bone if he did not take a swing at the man he called Moriarty soon.

 

It hurt. He admitted to himself for the first time since he found out about her passing. It hurt to know she was not in the world anymore. It hurt to think of her as a memory and he hated it. She was not supposed to be a memory; she was supposed to be there. She was his constant, his anchor to the bleak miserable world without him knowing it. He felt lost, he felt so lost without her.

 

“What did I hurt Sherlock’s wittle feeling?” Moriarty taunted, much too pleased to gain a reaction from Sherlock. He had returned to a crumbling empire. The empire he had then faked his death in order to escape Magnussen, vile man who had even him in the palm of his hands which he had thanked Sherlock for disposing. He closed the distance between him and Sherlock, “did I hit a nerve?”

 

Sherlock’s body was rigid, filled with anger. Not a nerve, no. It was more than that. He had struggled to define it. It was regret, a deep sinking regret of what could have been if he had just seen things for what it was instead of being clever. It was regret for not telling her the truth, using riddles to tell her what was in his heart. Most of all, guilt, he felt guilty for being so selfish and keeping her close to him when he knew better. He should have sent her away. Should, but he never could have and he knew that. He had always needed her.

 

Moriarty pranced away, breathing in the air. It was almost poetic to return to a place where they started all of it three years ago. London really had not changed, the roof of Barts was still there waiting for his encore and he didn’t wish to disappoint. “Silly Sherlock,” he said, turning on his heels to face Sherlock again, “why did you have to go and make yourself that vulnerable?”

 

It took all of Sherlock not to give into the temptation to swing his fist at Moriarty. He had to know why. All these years he had been wondering, despite his excitement, why a man such as Moriarty existed as his archenemy but most of all, he wanted to know why her. “Why?” the word fell out of his mouth and he hated how he sounded like. A lost child, he was lost.

 

“Why…what, Sherlock?” Moriarty asked feigning ignorance, enjoying the exchanging. It was game for him, not knowing it was not for Sherlock. “Why little Miss Molly had to die?” he threw in another question, mocking Sherlock as he did so. “Isn’t it quite obvious?”

 

“Because she loves me?” Sherlock croaked a reply. His fault, it was all his fault all along. Stupid Sherlock, Mycroft was right.

 

Moriarty shook his head, “Poor Sherlock, he doesn’t even know his own heart,” he said in a sing-a-song tone. A lump was forming in Sherlock’s throat and he swallowed, hard. “No. She had to die because _you_ love her,” a declaration that made Sherlock froze in his spot. He knew, of course he knew his own heart. He had loved Molly for much longer than anyone knew or he cared to admit. It was really his fault. He handed her to Moriarty on a silver platter. “I did promise I’ll burn the heart out of you,” a reminder of an old vow made.

 

Suddenly her last words made perfect sense to Sherlock. He buckled down to his knee. The indescribable pain that surge through his veins left him paralyzed. She knew. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t find his voice. She always knew. He was a prized idiot. She knew he would blame himself and even with her last breath she wanted to comfort him, knowing full well Moriarty would use her words to taunt him. His Molly, his Molly… He lost her.

 

Just like that the world fell into a perfect silence. He watched with hollow eyes when Moriarty fell before him, knowing at the back of his mind Mary had pulled the trigger. Mycroft had been ordered to bring Moriarty back alive, but even the British Government himself wanted to end the criminal mastermind’s life. They had plotted, in secrets and Mary, the best marksperson between them had volunteered to deliver the kill shot.

 

No one was to know who did it. He noticed a glimpse of Mary as she took her leave before his brother’s agent come closing in. The rush of footsteps as orders being thrown around escaped him. Someone he didn’t know was talking to him, he didn’t care He remained locked away, recalling her last smile for him the morning before she died. She was so happy, so very happy. He was going to ask her to dinner, but his damn phone. Too late, always too late.

 

John’s voice echoed in his mind, he heard his best friend calling for him. Worrying and shuffling to his side to check for any injury. But, all he could hear was her voice as he left the morgue that morning;

 

_‘I’ll see you later, Sherlock.’_

 

She lied.


	2. Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?' – Albus Dumbledore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry...

Sometimes he’d dream of her and every so often, his dreams were too vivid that it took him a moment to gain his bearings when he woke from his slumber. He could still hear her voice often. So often that it was probably bordering on dangerous. But, he didn’t think so. Not when she kept bringing him back, telling him not to simply fall over the tempting edge.

 

And sometimes his dream felt too real because he could fell her kisses on his lips – how could he have made it up? Not when he never even had the chance to kiss her even once. And her smiles, in his dreams, she smiled often. She would even go as far as teased him and laugh at his inane comments. She found the properties of tobacco funny as well, or it could be she was trying to humour him.

 

In his dream, too, he said he loved her often. Every chance he got, never failing once. Every morning, every night, every single time he saw her and every minute in between. He told her he loved her repeatedly and meant every word of it.

 

“Sherlock,” his name, spoken by her, sounded perfect in his ears. He was tempted to ask her to call him by his full name, just to see how that sounded like. Would it roll of her tongue as easily as he wished it would be?

 

“Hmm...” he hummed contentedly, pulling her small frame even closer to him. She was tiny in comparison to him, almost breakable.

 

“Wake up, you’re going to be late, it’s Lila’s graduation,” she told him, but, her resolve to wake him was weak. He could tell by how she threw her arm over his waist and running her fingers gently over his exposed skin where his t-shirt had ride up his abdomen when he moved.

 

It was perfect. He could never wish for anything more than this. In fact, he knew he didn’t want anything else if he could just keep her by his side like this, pressed against him with her breath tickling his neck. He would forsake even the most alluring mystery for her. She was the only thing he needed to keep his mind at peace, his demons at bay and his sanity intact.  

 

But, John and Mary would kill him. He did promise to be there and he regretted it. It would have been perfect to stay curled in bed all morning for no reason at all. Or he could listen to her as she talked of everything and nothing at all. He loved hearing her speak; nothing calmed him down like the sound of her voice in his ear.

 

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled in his half-asleep state and heard her small chuckle. Oh, he loved that chuckle as well. He loved her laughs, her squeals and her delight. She was unreserved in her joy, casting ray of sunshine over his dark skies.

 

“You’ve said that, fifteen minutes ago,” she reminded him and he felt her titled her head. His mind drifted for a brief second and he felt her placed a soft kiss at the base of his throat, and groaned. She was tempting him, deliciously so.

 

He refused to yield, “are you trying to wake me or keep me in bed?” he questioned, still with his unopened eyes. There was beauty in how they fit perfectly for each other. It was somewhat whimsical, he couldn’t help but grin.

 

“You can keep me in bed all day tomorrow. It’s Lila’s graduation, you’re her Godfather. So, you have to go,” she nagged him, yet, she didn’t move from where she laid, snugged against his body. He loved her even more when she nagged him. It was easy to as well, when she spoke to him fondly.

 

“Can you not be so sensible for a day, let’s just stay in,” he tried to bargain, moving his arm under her – rather his that she had taken as hers, he didn’t mind – t-shirt. The shirt was huge on her small frame. He was never the guy who liked to see a woman in his clothes before her. She was an exception; the one who made him threw caution out the window even if it had taken him a little longer than most men.

 

She giggled and her body shook with glee, “Later, we’ll order takeaway later and stay in,” she promised and he had every intention to hold her to that promise.

 

“You drive a hard bargain,” He whined, rolling so he could trap her underneath him.

 

The sound of her laughter filled his ears making him yearn to see the mirth in her eyes. She always did have expressive eyes, too much of it, often sending his brain into overdrive. Expectantly, he opened his eyes, though; all he found was the cold ceiling. He blinked twice reaching to the side of the bed which he knew, as it always had been, would be empty. The clock to his side blinked, ugly read. It was half-past seven and he knew he had to get up.

 

It was getting hard these days, to wake up from the wonderful dreams. Yet, he knew he should. So, he did, swinging his leg to the side of the bed and moving about to complete the day’s task. Lila’s – John and Mary’s oldest – graduation day and he cannot miss it.

 

He stared into the mirror as he brushed his teeth. The man looking back at him felt like a stranger with each passing day. Gone was the striking version of him that used to stare back from it some twenty odd years ago. He got old, even when his mind was still as sharp as before, his body had started to disagree. Twenty odd years, it had been just as long since he last saw her smiling face, an image forever etched into his mind. Her last goodbye to him still echoed in his mind. He was waiting for the ‘later’ she promised as he tried to live the best he could.

 

Memories flooded his mind, surging through and he did nothing to fight them. The first day he saw her. That time she asked him out for a coffee and he pretended not to understand, he thought she could do better, better than him. The day he returned from his death and saw her thankful gaze, she was glad he was alive. It all jumbled up, her faces through the short years he knew her, never forgotten.

 

Before he knew it he spent longer than he intended, but not quite falling into his mind palace as he usually would. He can’t afford to, not today. The reminder of what the day was prompted him to quickly continue with his task. He took a quick shower and dressed, picking up his mobile on his way out of the bedroom. It was blaring with notification and he scrolled idly, looking through the messages and missed calls he had received while he slept and preparing for the day.

 

There was a message from Mary to remind him not to miss Lila’s graduation from the night before and in the morning, and by the look of it, was sent while he was in the shower. Seven missed calls from John, all while he was in the shower too, always the worrier between the two. A text from Mycroft telling him the car would be around at eight. It was strange, still, how his brother had graduated from phone calls to texting. And a voicemail from Lila’s number, which was not new. She often left messages wishing him good morning; ever since she was a child, if she failed speak to him in person. Lila was as perceptive as Mary, always seeing what John missed.

 

He dialed John back; the sound of relief in his friend’s voice (as well as Mary who was obviously hovering) was noticeable as he assured them that he was on his way, knowing Mrs Hudson had reminded him she had her would arrange her own ride. After that, he barely remembered how he functioned throughout the day. He was sure he had given the appropriate reaction to people – scowling included – as the day progressed, but, he cannot remember much beyond the long hug given to him by Lila who was pleased to see him.

 

“Uncle Sherlock,” Lila called and it sounded perfect coming from her. John, Mary, Lila’s younger brother; Scott, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson stood by him. He never thought he would be so fond of the girl when she was born – she was still a little girl in his eyes, she would never grow up. And for a moment, just a split second, he wondered what his and Molly’s daughter would sound like at her own graduation. What sort of person she would have been? Would she have been more like Molly or like him? He wished their little girl would have been more like Molly.

 

He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind as he returned the young woman’s embrace. “Congratulation, Lila,” he said, smiling widely. He was proud of her; then again, she had always had the advantage in terms of genetic seeing who her parents were.

 

“Thanks,” she replied, beaming as she pulled away the pins between her hair and the mortarboard before removing it swiftly. “Are you joining us for dinner tonight?” she asked, always the impatient one. No one can fault her for that, not even Mary who pursed her lips and smiled fondly at her daughter.

 

“No, not tonight,” Sherlock shook his head slowly, “I had a long day yesterday and I’m not as young as I was,” he added when he saw the young woman pouted, the perfect mirror image of Mary. John. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson clearly decided it was best not to point out they were older. “I was hoping to retire early, how about I take all of you to breakfast tomorrow?”

 

Lestrade arched an eyebrow, “Well, count me out for that. Sally wanted to take the kids for a nice short holiday starting tomorrow,” he said, earning a pout from Lila as well, “But, I’ll be there for dinner, along with Sally and the boys.”

 

“Nana?” Lila asked Mrs Hudson, hopefully.

 

“Oh darling, I wouldn’t miss either of it for the world,” Mrs Hudson replied happily.

 

Satisfied, Lila turned her attention back to Sherlock. “I want pancakes,” she demanded as she usually would and Sherlock nodded. John who was on his left shook his head at his daughter’s antiques. Lila had everyone wrapped around her little finger from day one. No one could ever say no to her, but she was kind and understanding as well. Well aware of when she should and shouldn’t push a subject.

 

“I believe Mycroft sends his congratulations already and this is from me,” Sherlock said, changing the subject as he handed the neatly wrapped packaged to Lila, “It might be useful for when you get into medical school,”

 

She took it with a huge smile, “Thank you,” she said, remembering her manners without being reminded.

 

“I’m just going to join the army,” Scott pipped in with his usual brand of humour, “I look better in uniforms anyway.”

 

The group laughed; there was never a dull moment with Scott around. Scott, like his sister, looked more like Mary than John. Though, he was taller than the three of them, still a couple of inches shorter than Sherlock.

 

“I’m sure I’ll think of an appropriate gift when you do,” Sherlock replied, amused.

 

“Guns are not appropriate gift, Sherlock,” Mary said, grinning.

 

Sherlock arched his eyebrow in respond and smiled, “Of course,” and turn to wink conspiratorially at Scott and he knew neither Mary nor John had missed, but decided not to comment on. Just like the times where he knew they caught him looking into the distance remembering her. They were letting him have the small victories, the little happiness while wishing for more for him. He knew, of course.

 

“I really must leave,” Sherlock said. He was getting tired and restless. As much as he loved his friends and pseudo- family, being around them for a long period of time started to take a toll on him as of late. It was a reminder of what could have been. A constant and glaring reminder of what he would never have. “Breakfast, tomorrow,” he added and received nodding replies.

 

He gave everyone one last hug before walking off, he still the first one to leave. At least, he reasoned, he said his goodbyes instead of slipping away unnoticed.

 

Slipping back into a dream was easy for him. He lay on his bed, not bothering to remove the clothes he was wearing. His mind wandered to her as it always did when he was alone. It was getting easier to picture her. She was ageless while he had turned into an old man. Moriarty robbed the chance for him to see her age by his side. He wondered, often, about her first grey hair. Would she have dyed? Would have she resented getting old? No. She wouldn’t and he knew this. She was always about the simple things in life.

 

“Molly,” he called out her name like a prayer. As if she could hear him.

 

He was back to where he wanted to be as soon his eyes closed. She was there and she was so alive, looking at him with a look so full of love he wanted to prove he earned it. He liked to believe he had earned it. She was beckoning him to her and his name fell from her lips sweetly. He didn’t want it to end; he wanted to stay where she was.

 

He built a life around her and he could see how beautifully mundane it was. So domestic and he loved it. And he heard their hypothetical daughter quite clearly before he saw her. Her laugh was like Molly’s, her smile too. But, her eyes and nose was his. Her hair was his colour but had the softness of Molly’s. She had dimples in her cheeks and she looked like a dream. She was a dream.

 

She was the very last of his dreams. He never woke after that night and no one knew how he died, he was healthy as a horse even when he didn’t feel like he was. He just went to sleep. But, years later when Mary and John sat watching their grandchildren play, she’d told him Sherlock died of a broken heart and he agreed. He told her Sherlock waited for as long as he could – he had to make sure they were alright – and they were.

 

Mycroft buried his baby brother next to the woman who loved him the most. He knew it was irrational, but, he hoped, even for a little bit, even like this – that they are together.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for this. I'm not having the best day/week/month so far. Honestly, I have the story partyly written months ago. I just never could finish it. But, I felt particularly terrible today and all I could think was the story. I could see it play in my head over and over again... I just... I'm sorry...


End file.
